


Sick of Sleep

by Giggles96



Series: Big Bad World [2]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Childishness, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Protectiveness, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-11 03:26:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2051856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giggles96/pseuds/Giggles96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reid tries to pass an illness off as nothing. No-one is fooled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick of Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: these characters do not belong to me

　

A piercing surge of pain cutting into the outskirts of his sockets, cramping around his temples, desperate and tenaciously resistant to standing down, Reid kneads his eyes with the heels of his hands, and narrowly draws in one - no, two - _three_ deep breathes.

In the rare case that he were actually honest with himself, the young profiler would admit to feeling… off. Not one-hundred percent, but certainly not under the weather as such, either. Nothing terrible enough to warrant a, let's say, thirty-percent when calculating overall fitness - a hundred being _his_ personal best, which measured against the likes of, well, Morgan, maybe, wouldn't be nearly as high considering his naturally scrawny physique.

Even so, Spencer takes inventory of all those minor details that contribute to this general  _off-ness_ , and in that big, bad brain of his, unearths an abundance of information that can only lead to one, logical conclusion.

He, Dr Spencer Reid, has contracted the flu.

Shivering, he wonders absently if it's due to the cold, or from his own horror at effortlessly picking up something so undesirable despite his vigilance and having no idea _how_.

From the corner of his eye, he tosses a glance over his team mates, considering…then he shakes himself for being so silly and wordlessly apologizes.

Still, he can't help but think, as he studies his contaminated hands.

 _Hmm.. last weekend, maybe? Seems like the likely culprit._ Everyone had gathered at Hotch's for a barbeque, where he'd-

A sudden flash of comprehension.

Where I'd spent the day building bridges out of Lego with Henry and Jack! Two boys whose idea of clean is wiping their hands down the front of their pants!

Reid sighs. That'd teach him about volunteering to keep the kids occupied while the other men ' _minded the grill_.' Puh-lease. Did they really think he wouldn't know it was just an excuse to crack open a few beers?

And on that note…

To be fair, it wasn't like he was terribly inconvenienced or anything. It was fun. He'd genuinely enjoyed himself, and would rather have another repeat of that giggle-fest than have to endure the girl's gossip gorge any day.

"Hey, Reid?" A call from his left draws his attention.

"Yeah?" he mumbles thickly.

Turning, the BAU's youngest feels a chill along his spine where the pooled heat has dampened his mauve shirt, the collar rough against the sensitive skin of his neck. His muscles ache with every movement, but that's nothing compared to the ripple of pain as his stomach constricts and tightens.

"Everything okay?"

"Sure, Morgan." It's hard to concentrate on words. He can't wad through the sludge far enough to _think_. "Just _wonderful_."

"Is that sarcasm I'm detecting?" he laughs. "It is, isn't?" Another moment and he frowns, eyes dimming, before tacking on with a pang of concern, "What's up, man? You don't look so hot."

Why can't he just leave him alone?

 _"I'm fine,"_ he hisses through gritted teeth.

God, he isn't some _child_. They don't have coddle him so darn much.

"Wow, Pretty Boy," Morgan blurts, raising his arms in a placating gesture that comes across as especially patronizing now, in this foul mood. "Put the grumpy-kitten glare away, okay? I'm just asking. _Jeez_."

"Can you just drop it? Please?"

When he doesn't immediately respond, Spencer adds snidely, "Thank-you."

Throughout this exchange, Hotch's eyes have become thinner and thinner, and it takes Reid a full minute to register that everyone is presently staring at him with identical expressions of confusion and worry.

"That goes for all of you. Not. A. _Word_."

A number of eyebrows shoot up.

Curtly facing the window and single-mindedly ignoring his friend's stupid, silent conversation.

Thoughts of a warm, cosy bed invade his mind and his eyes long to drift shut. However, as enticing as such luxuries may be, Reid will not - not ever - admit defeat.

Illness is an indulgence he simply cannot afford, and provided that he is not confined to his bed by necessity, then a bed is not where he will be. He is not so spineless as to be taken down by some glitch in his immune system.

No matter how groggy and spacey and just plain _weird_ he feels.

Around him, he can just about make out the hushed conspiring.

 _Yeah_ , he'd roll his eyes but he's sorta afraid to, _Real subtle._

"Do ya think maybe he's just tired?" (Blankety blank. Something too low to distinguish) "-time for a nap?" Judging by the voice, it sounds like Rossi's shrugging.

Reid's cheeks threaten to colour.

Regardless of how many times he tells them that it is a wise, _totally-normal-compulsory_ - _snooze_ , it has simply never caught on.

"Nah, Hotch ordered the kid to go lie down after he almost chocked on a couple of markers. He tried to chug a cup full of 'em thinking it was coffee."

Of course Morgan would say the most damning thing and not even attempt to hide the fact that he'll never live that down, even if he lives for the next hundred years. It wasn't even his fault! He still maintains that they should never have set it down in front of him.

"Did he go, though?" JJ pipes up. "Spence didn't seem too happy about it."

"There was a bit of fuss." Hotch. "But once I got him to the hotel, he was asleep before his head even hit the pillow."

Pause, then:

"Good thing I remembered to bring Mr Mc Fuzz."

This is quickly followed by an exasperated sigh. "For the last time, Morgan, it's a girl and HER name is Nancy!"

"What?! Since when?!" he cries in response, before frantically shaking his head. "Emily, no! Just no! It should be illegal to call such a majestic animal something so lame as _Nancy_."

"Oh, yeah? Then I suppose you wouldn't mind calling Garcia and repeating that to her.. After all, she _is_ the one who came up with it."

Gasp. "You did not just-"

Emily's smile, by all rights, is irksomely victorious. "Do you really want to face the wrath of your precious Baby Girl?"

"Look, Ems, _I_ am the one that bought the stupid thing. Therefore, I am the one-"

"Guys- _guys_!" JJ interrupts, sounding incredulous and bemused all at once. "Cut it out, both of you! You're talking about a _stuffed lion_ here." She takes a deep breath, as silence overwhelms the jet once more.

"Besides," she mutters primly. "It's Sprinkles."

At that point, Rossi can't hold it in any longer and releases a hearty cackle.

Even Hotch can't resist a quiet chuckle.

"What the-? _Sprinkles_? Are you crazy?!"

"Like you're one to talk!" JJ fires back, sounding deeply offended. "What part of 'Mr Mc Fuzz' screams _majestic_?"

"She's right, Derek." The black-haired profiler tuts. "What were you thinking?"

This carries on for several more minutes with each proudly defending their corner. At first, Reid had hoped it would die down of its own accord, but after the argument hits the twenty-minute mark, that begins to seem unlikely.

"Okay, that's enough!" Spencer finally exclaims when his pounding headache just can't take it any longer. "What age are you? Three?! Can we _please_ , - and trust me, I'm begging here - just **_let it go_**?"

Glaring at each other, then at him, they each give a terse nod and fall back on their seats, blowing out an breath of frustration.

"Are we all good?" he double-checks, because, seriously, what is going on?

"Yeah, whatever," Morgan grumbles, his sentiment swiftly parroted by the women.

" _Thank, God,"_ Spencer breathes, slumping in relief.

Then, like an afterthought, "And for the record, it's Dr Roar. Henry thought it was only fair that the little guy had a doctorate, the same as me."

 

* * *

 

Reid is seriously beginning to resent his pitiful, damsel-in-distress-like reputation in the group by the time the jet lands and both Hotch and Rossi team up to herd him towards their SUV.

(For God's sake. What is it about him that invites this great deal of mother-henning?)

Naturally, he protests, - loudly and to no avail - and do you know what their razor-sharp leader does? Take a wild guess.

With Spencer impatiently trying to dodge out of the way, Hotch promptly places one hand on his burning forehead, before declaring in this annoyingly deadpan tone, like he knew it all along, "Fever's way too high. You're in no condition to drive."

One step in the wrong direction (no, seriously) and straight away, he regrets it.

Vision swimming, his knees all-too-prepared to buckle underneath him, the two elder men share a glance, before taking an arm on either side and all but hauling him towards their destination, his feet dragging not due to resistance, but because he can't uphold the strength required to keep up with the speed they're walking.

It would be humiliating if he weren't so out of it, anyway.

"Is he alright?" Reid thinks he hears Emily whispering, but her voice is garbled and doesn't make all that much sense.

"Yes," Hotch assures the anxious agent, volume equally reduced and hazy. "Reid will be fine. It's just a bad case of the flu."

"Yeah, on the condition that he stays hydrated and possibly downs some ibuprofen, the boy will back to full health in no time," Rossi chimes. "I'm thinking he can just sleep it off."

"Ha," Morgan barks. "Am I hearing you right? Did you say _just_? Since when does Pretty Boy 'just' do anything?"

Spencer groans at that, not altogether sure if the message's been received.

"Can't argue with that," Emily sighs. "So what're we gonna do? You can't leave him alone to fend for himself."

"We're not," Rossi announces gruffly.

"I thought it might be best to take him home with me," their boss elaborates. "Jessica will have Jack for the week and someone needs to keep an eye on him. No offence to Reid, but having seen the amount of caffeine he burns through as a substitute for breakfast daily, I have little faith that he can look after himself on a normal day, never mind when he's borderline delirious." As he speaks, Rossi and Hotch help the disorientated young man into the backseat, strapping him in with ease.

The door shuts with a gentle thud and what had been muffled to Spencer before is pretty much white noise now.

A handful of words, here and there.

"-hold on-" "-Garcia freaking-" "-boy genius-" "silly-" "-need to-" "-last time this hap-" "-tell her I-" "-rainbow blanket-" "-hates that-" "-take care-"

He yawns widely, sleep tugging incessantly at what remains of his consciousness.

A whimper. "It's okay, Spencer." This sudden voice as gentle as the hand carding through his hair. "Go to sleep."

 

* * *

 

Spencer wakes with a start, darting upright, and pushing his fingers through his slick hair as he absorbs the unfamiliar surroundings.

Glimpsing at his torso, he recognizes the dishevelled clothes from yesterday and struggles to recollect the events leading up to this moment. Another sweep later, the young genius spies what appears to be a note settled amongst the lamp shade along with a hefty bottle of water, which he wastes no time unscrewing the cap and gulping down in quick succession. In that split second, he cares little for its origins, engrossed by the sensations of both the tickle in his dry throat and his cracked lips that are currently bleeding.

Exhausted and weak, he spends another full minute scraping together the will to reach over and seize the handwritten message addressed to him.

Eventually, he does, though not without his muscles protesting, before reading in a pace somewhat slower than usual.

_Spencer,_

_I apologise for my absence, but my presence was required at work. To answer your question, yes, I have arranged for you to take this day off, knowing of your poor health. Your attempts at deception were meagre at best._

_Nobody was fooled._

_Let this serve as a reminder that whenever we hear you utter the words, "I'm fine," the team is immediately alarmed._

_I hope you use this time to recover accordingly. The bathroom is to your right, should you fail to remember, and I have taken the liberty of preparing chicken soup; I trust you know how to work the microwave. Drink lots of water and most importantly, do yourself a favour and take it easy._

_See you soon,_

_Hotch_

Reid frowns.

As much as he appreciates having Hotch go to so much trouble, he doesn't want to be stuck lounging about here all day. It's not that he's uncomfortable staying over, (the place is practically a second home, given how often he shows his face around here) but more that, he _knows_ he'll be bored stiff.

Besides, he doesn't feel _that_ dreadfully. It's virtually just the sniffles, really; nothing intolerable.

Hotch is overreacting, like he typically does. This is absurd.

Spencer crosses his arms, scowl deepening.

It's just not _fair_.

 

* * *

 

A brief rap on his door draws Hotch's attention to the slender figure entering his office.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he heaves a displeased sigh, and pauses a moment before muttering, "He's here, isn't he?"

"John down by security spotted him on his way up," JJ relates with a grimace. "Called a second ago to say he was concerned that a certain Dr Reid might pass out in the elevator. Apparently he and a co-worker wagered that he won't even make it to the fourth floor."

"That bad?"

She nods. "That bad."

A rarity for their unflappable leader, he utters a few choice words, which JJ excuses given the circumstances. "I _knew_ this would happen." Anger growing, he rubs the napes of his neck. "That boy is as predictable as it gets."

The young mother bites her lip, feeling bad for Spence but unable to condone his careless behaviour. With a smidgen of nervousness on behalf of one of her best friends, she deduces, "He's in a lot of trouble, isn't he?"

"Yes," Hotch confirms, sounding none too happy about it himself. "Yes, he is."

 

* * *

 

By the time Reid approaches his desk, he can barely put one foot in front of the other.

And for the life of him, he just can't seem to grasp why.

Then, out of nowhere, Morgan materializes right beside him, carefully steering him towards his chair, and oh, isn't that handy?

"Hi, there, Pretty Boy." His voice is really, really kind. And friendly. Can't forget friendly. Why hasn't he ever noticed that before? His friend is really friendly. "Didn't expect to see you in today."

Spencer shakes his head and squints as he tries to settle his disjointed thoughts.

"My feet, Morgan," he babbles in an abrupt burst of recollection. "My feet, they don't-they don't work so good right now."

"Oh?" Morgan's voice holds only polite interest as he struggles to reserve a straight face. "How so?"

"They're all wobbly and sore and no good!" the distressed man moans, wrinkling his nose. "They're just no good, Morgan!"

"I'm sure they're fine," the amused profiler tries to reassure.

"They're not, though. I mean, look!" Without warning, he yanks off his shoe, chucks it aside, and angrily wiggles his toes. "Just look! It's _ALL **WRONG."**_

To Morgan's immense relief, Hotch chooses that moment to come to the rescue before he has the chance to dissolve into hysterics.

"How is he?" he asks in obvious concern as he dashes over. "What-" He pauses, steps slowing. "What is he doing?"

"Demonstrating the wrongness of his toes," Derek claims miraculously steadily at the same time Reid exclaims, "Hotch!"

The unit chief glances down at the man he regards as a son with his flaming cheeks, and glassy eyes with teardrops weighing down on the lashes, and can't find it in his heart to stay mad.

"Hey, hey," he murmurs, crouching down and collecting the stray sneaker off the floor. "It's alright. We'll get your foot patched up in no time, you hear?" Absentmindedly grazing the young genius' forehead, he inwardly frowns at the heat emanating from there. Over his shoulder, he reports, "Clearly his fever has shot up a lot higher than you'd hope for. We need to get him to an emergency room. Pronto."

"But-but what about my foot?" Spencer rasps with an expression of pure confliction.

"We can get that looked at too, if you'd like. In the mean time, would a bandage suffice, do you think?"

He nods, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

If Hotch thinks it'll do the trick, then he'll trust that it does.

"Well, okay then. JJ, fetch the first aid kit, will you? Then we can be on our way."

"No problem."

"Would you, um, like someone to accompany you?"

He smiles. "That would great, Prentiss. Do me a favour, though, and grab his things before we leave?"

"Sure. Your office?"

"My office."

For Hotch, it's a _long_ afternoon, (a feverish Reid is a difficult Reid) but by the time he helps an only semi-awake Spencer through the door and into bed, seeing the way his worn features go slack as a peaceful expression softens his face, arm curled around Nancy or Sprinkles or Dr Roar or whatever, makes every weary sigh worth it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank-you very, very much for reading.
> 
> Please let me know what you think.


End file.
